I felt so unsafe as a child. I would awaken in the middle of the night terrified & sometimes sobbing. I would be desperate to get into my parents bed. But they had a waterbed & it proved to be quite cumbersome. I remember sitting there in my room, sometimes alone, sometimes with Crissy- I would have this internal debate with myself for what seemed like hours. I would toggle between running to my parent’s room & beginning the acrobatic feat of slinking into a waterbed without making waves or to continue to fidget in my room with my anxious limbs, hoping to grow exhausted from the panic & then somehow, maybe, manage to fall asleep. On more than one occasion I had awoken Crissy, when we shared the same room. She would tell me to go back to sleep & that I was being silly- I couldn’t imagine how she was so brave & I was so scared.
I remember turning the doorknob, so deliberately slow, that my hand would feel cramped & strained. I would awkwardly linger closer to the small crack I was beginning to create & struggle to hear the TV downstairs. Knowing for sure that the rapid beat of my heart could certainly be heard throughout the house, echoing off every wall. If I heard the muffled sound of late night TV I knew then that my mom was still up & I could slither to the couch. The minute my skin touched those soft brown cushions, on our huge sectional sofa the pulsating in my chest would begin to slow down. In that moment, almost immediately- I knew, my body knew, my heart knew; I was safe. Those were the most glorious times, from panic to peace within seconds. Where I would close my eyes, pretend to be invisible while the theme song to MASH or Magnum PI gently wooed me to a happier place.
Yet many times, as I lurked by my cracked door, during these intense & illogical episodes of terror, I couldn’t bring myself to leave this prison. I would pace & cry & feel hysteria in every raised & pulsating vein. That uncertainty & feeling of utter desperation at all hours of the night were the worst times. I never wanted to be alone as a child. I made Crissy share a room with me even though we had three extra bedrooms, so I would have some confidence & strength to lean against during these wild nights. I whined & fought so adamantly when Crissy finally demanded her own space. She was two years older & righteously, she wanted her own territory.
Growing up, I never loved my bedrooms; they always felt foreign, like I was a visitor in a hotel room. It was a place to sleep & wake up to, an area to store my clothes but certainly not a place to sink into. Most kids view their room as their sanctuary & long for the moment in their busy days where they are finally alone in their room. My room was not a place of solace; I didn’t like being alone & a closed door was as foreign to me as another language. I never spent long hours in my bedroom doing anything but sleeping & getting ready for school. I never felt this obsession with having my own space though I certainly enjoyed decorating it with Kirk Cameron pictures, New Kids on the Block posters & BOP magazine cut outs. A child’s room is supposed to be their sanctuary but for me, it was sort of my nightmare. I don’t think I knew then that I was unusual.
When we moved into our new house I immediately wanted the bigger room with the huge bay window. Perhaps this room would be different. It was not. Hotel room, a place for sleep & clothing storage. I felt no connection to that space, that beautiful window that allowed all the sun in California to make it the hottest room of the house. The first time a bedroom actually felt safe & comforting to me was after Crissy died. I chose to abandon my original, much bigger bedroom & move into hers. I left all my old furniture in that room- furniture that had followed me for years like an annoying friend who kept clinging to me. I held an actual connection to Crissy’s stuff even though it was never meant to be mine. For the first time, I desired that door to be closed. It wasn’t until recently that I finally realized or perhaps, was ready to admit- I certainly was experiencing panic attacks as a child. But why? I didn’t have a horrible childhood or some traumatic incident. That came later. I eventually stopped having those panic ridden nights but I still didn’t really like being alone all that much. And I did everything in my power to not be alone any more than I had to. I hated being alone & had no clue that it was something I would absolutely have to get accustomed to.
I never felt lonely as a child because there was always Crissy, my mom, neighbor kids & friends to keep me from feeling alone. Moving to a small country town, to a house built in the middle of nowhere made that avoidance of lonesomeness a bit more difficult. But I still had Crissy- until she was murdered at those ripe & awkward teenage high school years. Losing Crissy & her presence was so palpable & raw. The whole experience was overwhelmingly sad & confusing. The gut punch of learning your sister, your companion, was beaten to death shattered any ounce of reality I had left. Through all the trauma & gory stabbing in your stomach details that kept emerging, I can still pinpoint the exact minute I felt at my most desperate. Surrounded by so many mind numbing horrific moments that poured in like a flash flood in a slot canyon in a beautiful desert landscape- one devastatingly gnawing memory completely stands out. The succession of events that happened within weeks quickly slammed into my consciousness but also seemed to move slow like honey- Crissy disappearing, her body being discovered, the police calling, the dental records coming in, the news stories with her picture plastered everywhere, the family & friends trickling into town, her memorial, the odd “after party”, the strange looks & even more strange & awkward comments while my entire being completely shut down.
As the days rolled on after Crissy’s memorial, slowly but surely people began to depart- back to their lives, jobs, family & responsibilities. Family began to leave, one by one, while my oldest sister Wendy stayed true the longest. She stayed as long as feasibly possible but we all knew, she had to go too. And though so many recollections during that time are so faded or just totally forgotten, that one memory is painfully clear. Wendy left. Because she had to. She had a job, a life & a partner three & half hours away. Everyone got on with their lives & I desperately tried to imagine how I would too. People could enter their homes & not feel the immense loss of a human child- Crissy. They could enter their kitchen & not see the food Crissy liked to eat, they could walk past their bathroom & not see her towel & they certainly didn’t have anywhere in their home that still smelled like her.
I knew Wendy was leaving; it was no surprise that her friends were coming to get her that day. I felt ready but I also felt dread. I just couldn’t adequately prepare myself or even fathom, what that moment would feel like. And I certainly had no clue, that that feeling which rushed through my insides, would be how I existed, for years. The sun was about to go down & it was usually my favorite time of the day. As kids, we would finish dinner & run outside to get those last few moments of sun until it disappeared; I cherished those fleeting minutes between daytime & nighttime. As the gravel outside creaked & crackled under the car that would soon take Wendy away- I felt that sense of panic again. My heart raced & pounded so loud I thought it would burst through my t-shirt & fall bloody to the floor. I looked at Wendy & begged without words to not go. I hugged her & said a goodbye that I didn’t want to say, wasn’t ready to say. I knew once that car drove off, my earth would come crashing down & the gravity of losing Crissy would fall squarely in my lap, forcing me to face the grim & harsh reality. Crissy was dead. And then, just like that, Wendy left.
My parents retreated to their usual spots at around 8pm- the couch. I stood in the dark, on the landing & peered around the corner. My Dad laying down with his head in the curved part of that massive sofa with the TV blasting way too loudly & that familiar sight of my mom with her book in her lap, her legs wrapped to the side & under her, with her reading glasses resting daintily on the end of her nose. There it was- the couch that once brought me so much relief was now something I wanted to run away from. It was such a customary sight- something I had seen a thousand times with no real meaning. I was 10 feet from my parents & I never felt so alone & so alienated. The sight represented them trying their best to get back to normal & to move on- it was sickening to me in that moment & I felt angry. What the hell was my normal going to be? How was I going to move on? I wanted to burst through the door & run as hard & fast as I could, until my breath was lost & I was so far away from that “normal”.
I went upstairs to my parents bedroom to watch TV- it was more instinctual really. This was the routine for Crissy & I. I would lay on the floor with my foot up on the TV stand & she would sit or lay in their bed. I turned the TV on & the shadows it created on dark walls gave me chills. The dark bathroom somehow became frightening; I began to panic but tried to push down the thick dread that was oozing from my pores. This place had once brought me so much freedom & alleviation but now the dreary walls were closing around me tightly, pressing up against my windpipe. And in that moment, I felt Crissy’s absence so hard & so deep, that it literally took my breath away. I was watching Unsolved Mysteries, desperately grasping as some form of familiarity & routine. But there I was- alone in a dark bedroom, feeling utter terror & wanting to escape but even my parents couch couldn’t fix this & I knew it.
That horror, that bone chilling fear, that heart palpitating anxiety hit me like a dump truck. I felt panicked, I felt alone & I felt like I was in another dimension. My vision altered- the TV seemed to be at the end of a very long dimly lit hallway. My surroundings seemed unreal, unreachable & in that moment, I knew I was fucked. I just couldn’t begin to imagine then, how devastating the next few years would end up being. But in that fleeting moment, I knew I was alone then & needed to get used to that notion- of being…alone.
I still have this deep-seated fear of being awake in the middle of the night by myself. As an adult in a relationship, I would always be desperate to fall asleep first. I would distract them or hope they would stay up watching TV or playing video games as I strained to fall asleep before them. I never put two & two together- most people don’t, right? Our childhood traumas aren’t something we enjoy analyzing, no, instead we lock them away, push them down, compact them & compartmentalize them as unnecessary information. But we all know that our childhood shapes us as adults, whether we want to admit it or not. We are reflections of our parents, their dysfunctions morphing into our own to create a whole new set of obstacles in our way towards happiness.
After being thrown into the wrath of forced solitude, suffering years of hell & torment, I was desensitized by it all. I began to enjoy being alone & my room is mine. Its oozes my likeness, it smells like me, its essence is me, it is…me. I have the power & bravery I once craved so badly. The courage that seemed so easy for Crissy with which I desperately clinged to, trying to somehow siphon some strength from her. The power to survive when you feel every cell in your body wanting to die- I didn’t fight to live, I was forced to. My lungs somehow kept breathing & my heart for some reason continued to pump blood throughout my body no matter how hard I willed it to stop. I’m grateful for that powerful instinct that most animals have ingrained in them, to live, to fight for their life. I am alive & not alone and for that, I am grateful. I wanted to be the brave sister.